The ghost put down his pen with a weary sigh and rubbed at his cropped head. His added life due to the long winter nights had enabled him to finish his memoirs at last The wind howled around the Hall as November gales swept in from the sea across the Downs. The fire was crackling merrily, the shadows of the flames leaping over the paneled walls.

All at once, he thought of Alice with such an intense longing that he was quite shocked at himself. He shifted restlessly in his chair. Of course, he was lonely. That must be it. And now that he had finished all his writing he had nothing else to occupy his brain. But it would have been pleasant to have shared his supper with her, to have chatted over the fire as they once did. She was probably married to Sir Peregrine by now—or at least engaged. It was no use traveling to town to find out—it would only distress her.

The Duke would not admit to himself that it would distress him in the slightest. But there could be no harm in wandering through the house and finding a newspaper. She might be mentioned in the social columns. There might be a description of what she was wearing to some ball and who had escorted her.

He arose and, concentrating hard, drifted down through the floors until he came to the library. No newspapers. Then he realized that they had probably been taken off to the kitchens and, if he did not hurry, he would find they had already been crumpled up to light the bedroom fires.

At last he found a copy of the Morning Post neatly folded in the butler’s pantry and carried it off to the seclusion of his room. He was about to spread it out on the table when he noticed his pile of manuscript. How strange to think he had been so immersed in his past life that he had almost forgotten the present. He picked it up and laid it carefully on the chair beside the fire in which Alice used to sit when she was emerging from the chrysalis of scullery maid.

Then he sat down at the table and spread out the newspaper at the social column. He stared incredulously at the forthcoming marriage announcements, wondering if his eyes were playing him tricks.

Alice, Comtesse de la Valle-Chenevix was engaged again. Not to Sir Peregrine Dunster, but to a certain gentleman rejoicing in the name of Joshua Funk, Esquire, of Russell Square.

“Never heard of him,” muttered the ghost. “And Russell Square! She’s marrying a Cit!”